She Wanted
by Frankie McStein
Summary: Sometimes the greatest danger is not from the greatest evil. And sometimes, humans are too crazy to be understood. Rating for language and violence.


Sometime the greatest danger is not from the greatest evil.

And sometimes, people are just too crazy to be understood.

She Wanted

He pulled against the ropes as hard as he could, muscles straining, bulging beneath his skin. But he couldn't loosen the ropes. There was no slack in the bindings, no way he could slip his hands free, no way he could loosen the knots. He wanted to yell, swear, scream, anything to try to ease the frustration boiling in his chest. But the gag was too thick, too tight. Whenever he moved his jaw at all the material wadded in his mouth moved back until he'd been in danger of choking. It had taken longer than he cared to remember to shift it away from his throat again, tense minutes filled with panic and fear.

From the shadows in the corner of the room she watched him, fascinated by the way the dim light seemed to linger about his eyes, how it seemed to caress the tears that hadn't yet fallen. There were smudges of dirt on his face and tracks on both cheeks showing the path of the tears that had escaped. The top of the gag was the tinniest bit damp and his breathing was shallow and rapid- testament to his crying. There was something about a man with tears in his eyes that she found irresistible.

She let her eyes roam over him- his high cheek bones, the deep, expressive eyes, those pale freckles, just light enough to make you have to look twice before being certain they were really there. She could see the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed hard, no doubt trying to calm himself down. The light was flickering over the skin as the pulse beat beneath it and she stared in wonder at the movement. She wished she could see his lips and regretted the necessity of the gag. She wanted to lose herself in the structure of his face. She wanted to drink in the sight of him, feast on the taste of his sweat, and glory in his presence.

She wanted to let the smell of his fear wash over her until nothing else in the world existed. She wanted to block out the life he had known, steal away the memories, take away the pain. She wanted to touch him, memorise every inch of his body with her fingertips. She wanted to take him and make him hers. She wanted him to want her the way she wanted him. She wanted to see the need in his eyes and to know it was her that he needed. She wanted to have him on his knees before her, desperate for her touch, begging for her. She wanted to have power over him.

But he was hurting himself now, making himself bleed as his efforts to get free became increasingly frantic, and the sight of the blood smearing over his wrists as the rough rope tore at the delicate skin was disturbing her. She stepped out from the shadows, careful to move slowly, to avoid startling him. She didn't want to put him on his guard, he was dangerous when he felt he was threatened, she knew that. Her daddy had told her time and again that underestimating him would be a deadly mistake. She had no intention of becoming just another victim.

He stopped struggling as she approached him. He kept his eyes locked on her, a strange mix of suspicion and anger in their depths. The intensity of the emotion sent a thrill shooting through her; here was a man with fire in his veins. She felt like she could almost see the force of his emotions surrounding him like a glowing aura and she felt honoured that she alone was there to see it.

"Please try to calm down," she whispered, holding her hands in front of her, trying to show him that she was no threat. He raised an eyebrow in a half threatening half mocking gesture and she smiled in response, part of her amazed that he could summon such self-control, and part of her pleased to see that he wasn't cowering. It wouldn't have looked right somehow, the great Dean Winchester, the man who had terrified and finally killed her daddy, cowering in a chair.

"I'm going to take the gag off, Dean. No one will hear you if you scream, but feel free to yell if you like." She walked behind him to pull off the gag, wary of letting her hands get too close to his mouth. Her daddy had always told not to give him any chance to get any sort of an advantage, and she always listened to what her daddy told her.

"Why am I here?" he demanded as soon as his mouth was free. "Who are you?" His voice was flat and dangerous, and she thought other people would probably be scared by it. But he was tied to a chair and she knew there was no way he could get himself loose, she knew she had no reason to fear him.

"You're here to be punished, Dean," she said sadly. He really was a unique person; she had never felt so alive just from looking at someone before now. She actually regretted what she had to do to him. His jaw twitched slightly, drawing her attention to his mouth, and she lost herself for a moment. They looked so full, so soft. Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined the feel of those lips pressing against hers, dropping light kisses over her neck and throat. She could feel the light scratch of his stubble against her cheek, feel the heat of his breath caressing her skin.

"Punished for what?" His voice dragged her back to reality and she opened her eyes again to find him staring at her. She smiled sadly, taking another step back, ready to move further away if he reacted violently.

"Don't you remember, Dean?" She watched as he frowned slightly, eyes flickering to floor as he pushed his memory. When he finally looked back up she could she confusion on his face.

"I don't…"

"It's ok, Dean. I wouldn't expect you to remember. After all, killing your little brother isn't the sort of thing you dwell on, is it?" She expected anger or denial. She didn't expect him to laugh.

"Is that your angle? Try to make us both believe we killed each other? Nice try now where is my brother and what have you done to him?"

"If you really believe Sam is still alive, why have you been crying for him?" She fixed an expression of pity on to her face, hoping her eyes didn't show how much she enjoyed the devastated look that appeared at her words. He was struggling to hide it, to keep telling himself that she was lying, but she could in his eyes how fiercely he was fighting with himself. The drugs she had given him had seen to that.

"He was so scared, Dean. He kept begging you to stop. Pleaded with you to let him live. And you put a bullet in his brain." She hardened her voice, let an icy mask drop over her features, knowing it would go that little bit further to convincing Dean of his crime.

She actually thought she could pin point the exact second when he lost his internal battle. A look of horror, absolute soul tearing horror sprung in his eyes, his mouth fell open as his breathing grew shallow. She took a step closer and started whispering.

"He was on his knees in front of you." She smiled as Dean whimpered, leaning in even closer to hear the half strangled sobs that were catching in his chest.

"He held his arms out to you, just like when he was scared when you were kids."

"No," Dean gasped, trying to fight against the fake memories flooding in to his mind. But the drugs she had used were strong, and he couldn't hold them off. As she whispered her lies in to his ear, his mind filled in the blanks. He saw his little brother on the floor, bruised and bloody. He could hear his whispered pleas. And he saw his own gun, his own hand. He begged himself not to do it, but he saw his finger tighten on the trigger, felt the recoil in his shoulder, heard the dull thud as Sam slumped to the floor.

"Oh God. Please…"

"That's why you're here, Dean. Bobby wants me to punish you for what you did." She didn't get a response, but then, she hadn't expected to. Some of the people she had tested the drugs on had never even regained consciousness, let alone been capable of coherent thought or speech. As soon as she had seen Dean start to wake up she knew he was going to be strong enough for the drugs to work the way they were supposed to.

She thought back to her daddy teaching her the recipe, explaining the point and purpose of each and every ingredient. The result for a lot of people unfortunate enough to come in to contact with the finished thing was death, either quickly through an extreme allergic reaction, or slowly, through the gradual failure of all internal organs. Interestingly she had noticed that the heart was the last one to go, clinging on to life and pumping hard even as the body it was trying so hard to save was rotting all about it.

But for others, for the special few who were able to resist the mortal consequences of the drug, it played tricks on the mind. It crawled through the recesses of the mind and dug out their darkest fears, forcing them to see their worst nightmare playing over and over again. And then, when they finally managed to wake up, it left them over a hundred times more suggestible than the deepest hypnotic trance.

Watching Dean as his body wrestled with the drug had been enthralling; she had found herself longing to be able to see what he was seeing. She wished she could have seen what was making him cry, known who he was calling out to. Mostly it was slurred nonsense and she had passed the time in simply looking at him. She had expected to hate him. She had thought that when she had him at her mercy she would feel a surge of power as the moment of her revenge came nigh.

But the longer she had looked at him, the more she had wanted to wipe away the tears from his cheeks. She had found herself wanting to comfort him as he called out to his brother. She had kept finding reasons to touch him; she told herself that checking the bindings weren't loosening as he struggled against the demons of his dreams necessitated running her hands up his arms, feeling the hardness of the muscle beneath the pliable flesh. She had convinced herself that she was checking his heart rate when she pressed a hand against his chest. She had talked herself in to believing that he had a fever so she had a reason to cut off his shirt.

"Please," he whispered, looking up at her with such self-loathing in his eyes that it took her breath away. "Please…"

"Tell me what you want, Dean." She fairly purred the words; mighty Dean Winchester was reduced to begging her. After the way he had destroyed her daddy, it was so to see him looking so lost. The surge of power that flowed through her left her light headed. No matter how attractive his body might be to her, she could never forgot the reason she had brought him here, drugged him, and told him such an evil lie.

He was the man who had stolen her daddy away from her, and her job was to make him pay. She had been preparing for longer than she could remember, testing her skills, honing her talents, ensuring that when the time finally came, she would make her daddy proud.

Turning away from Dean, she took the few steps over a table and pulled off the cover with a flourish as if presenting it to the room. Dean's eyes widened slightly as he took in the contents. He had mentally managed to name half a dozen before she turned to him with a scalpel in her hand.

"You need to be punished for what you did, Dean. Don't you?" She smiled as he nodded and stepped closer to him. She started whispering about the death of his brother again, knowing he would continue to torment himself with the visions her words would create.

'For you, daddy,' she thought as she grasped his index finger in her left and touched the blade of the scalpel to it. 'I will make him pay.'

"Poor Sam," she murmured as she slowly pushed the blade under the nail. "He never had any idea why you did it." She twisted the blade, simultaneously slicing deep in to the finger and forcing the nail off the skin. It fell to floor unnoticed; she was enthralled by Dean's scream, by the colour of his blood, by the rhythmic patter as it dripped steadily to the concrete ground.

She released his finger, gripped the second, and repeated her actions. He was ready for the pain this time and there was no scream to caress her ears. She pouted, momentarily mourning the loss of that beautiful sound, then she noticed he was clenching his jaw, fighting to hold back his cry of pain. She narrowed her eyes at that; the whole point was to make him scream.

Forgetting her earlier occupation with his looks and her half formed plan to destroy his mind so she could his body for herself, she decided there and then that the object of the exercise wasn't simply revenge for what he had done, it was to make him scream. She grasped the third finger, inserted and twisted the scalpel in one smooth move, and immediately moved to the forth then fifth in quick succession.

She waited while his breathing slowed, anxious not to push him too far too soon. If he blacked out he might not wake up again soon enough. She knew that his brother would be looking for him, that he had probably recruited their friends to help him. It was only a matter of time before someone found him and she wanted to make sure that he would never forget the time they had spent together before he was snatched away from her by his family.

She looked down at the small puddle of blood pooling by the leg of the chair, growing with every passing second. A flicker of concern sparked through her as she watched the blood falling from his fingertips and wondered how much blood he would have to lose before he stayed unconscious.

'If he bleeds too much, he'll die before he's been properly punished.' It was her daddy's voice, and she always listened when her daddy spoke to her. Moving back to the table she dropped the scalpel and picked up a short metal rod and a lighter. She slapped his face lightly, making sure he was awake before flicking the lighter in to life and playing the flame over the end of the metal rod. His eyes widened as he realised what she was planning.

"Shh," she soothed, never taking her eyes off the reddish hue slowly spreading over the metal. "It'll help you feel better about what you did." Then she stretched out her arm and pressed the tip of the rod against his index finger. He gave a short cry of pain that he quickly smothered as a hissing sound rose from his finger. The blood beneath the metal bubbled briefly and the smell of copper assaulted her. She toyed with the idea of simply using the flame of the lighter on the other fingers, but the way Dean's eyes followed the rod as she lifted it back up told her that it wouldn't be as much fun.

Sure enough, as she played the flame over the metal again, his eyes were fixed on the flame. The instant she flipped the lighter closed his eyes closed too and he started breathing heavily, trying to prepare himself for the burning pain. She held the rod over the wound, close enough for him to feel the heat, but not touching the skin. He kept his eyes closed, kept on breathing rapidly, but his finger started twitching as if he was trying to move it away. He jumped violently as she pressed the rod down and this time she pressed harder and harder until he couldn't hold back the cry.

It was like music to her ears and sent a rush of adrenaline crashing through her that left her gasping in its wake. She stood still, trying to steady herself, and fixed her eyes on his hand. She noticed the tremors running through it and couldn't hold back the pleasure she felt at the thought that she was the cause. Ignoring the excited shaking running through her own hand she pressed two fingers to his neck, and frowned at the rapid pulse. She'd been counting on the drug messing with his mind long enough for her to cause him so much pain that when the drug wore off he would be broken. But he had woken up quicker than she had anticipated, and she couldn't help but wonder if the adrenaline from the pain was pushing the drug out of his system quicker than she hoped too.

She spun back to the table, dropping the lighter and rod as she did, and reached for the small cooler she had tucked behind one of the legs. A few seconds later she dropped a bag of ice on to Dean's hand, making him yell and jerk again. The cold would slow the bleeding and numb the skin, lowering the amount of adrenaline in his system, making the drug last longer.

"Bobby was there too." He groaned at her words, the pain forgotten as his drug addled brain immediately starting producing the images to go with what she was saying. "He tried so hard to stop you. Tried to save your little brother from you."

"Sammy…" his voice was horse, and although she knew it was probably just dehydration, she pretended it was from the screams he had treated her to. She could imagine what he was seeing, his little brother, the brother he had spent his life protecting, lying at his feet, lying still. And next to him lay Bobby, the man who had been like a father to them when their own father had been away, beaten down by the man he thought of as a son.

She couldn't begin to imagine the pain and terror he was feeling at the images his mind was conjuring up, and suddenly, that annoyed her. She didn't want the worst of his suffering to be from his own mind. She didn't want his to be afraid to close his eyes for fear of what his mind would show him, she wanted him to be afraid to open his eyes for fear of what she would be doing.

She bit her lip as she watched him pull against the ropes, whipping his head from side to side, trying to escape the images in his mind. He was whimpering, and the sound made her frown. He shouldn't be whimpering over the illusions in his mind, he should be screaming over the hell that she was making his reality.

And just like that she realised what she wanted; she didn't want him broken, she wanted to break him. She spun back to the table and grabbed a syringe full of adrenaline. Originally she'd been planning to use it to revive him if she got carried away, but now it would serve to get rid of the last traces of the drug from his system. He didn't even react as she pushed the needle deep in to his arm, so caught up in the horror his mind was showing him. But the instant she pressed down on the plunger his head snapped up and his eyes cleared even as he gasped for breath against the sick jolt speeding through his entire body.

The images were still in his head, of Sam begging and Bobby pleading, but they were less vivid and fading with every second. Over them all was the sound of her voice, whispering lies in to his ear. He felt a surge of anger as he looked at her, but it was quickly lost as the adrenaline started to fade and the pain it had been keeping at bay flared up. He dropped his head as he wrestled with the cry that was rising in his throat, biting down on his tongue to smother it. He pushed all other thoughts out of his head, focusing on nothing but the thought that screaming would give her satisfaction. It worked, and as the pain rolled up his arm in white-hot waves, he forced his breathing to level out.

She noticed he wasn't paying her any attention and quickly gathered up a few things before stepping back to his side. As he started to raise his head she wrapped a blindfold over his eyes, struggling to tie it as he immediately started shaking his head to try to dislodge it. But the pain was exhausting him giving her the advantage, and it didn't take long for her to firmly knot the ends.

The instant her hands stopped fussing with the blindfold he opened his mouth, no doubt to try to threaten her somehow, but she was ready for him and a few seconds later he was gagged too. His head dipped as he tried to move the gag by rubbing it against his shoulder. She watched closely, waiting for him to stop moving for just a second, and as soon as he did quickly pushed in a plug into the ear she could reach. His head snapped up, and she took advantage to insert the other earplug too, then stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Dean was effectively deaf, dumb, and blind, and as she couldn't hold back a smile at the sight. He was sitting so still that if it weren't for the rapid movement of his chest as he battled panic and the small whimpers that were dropping from his lips, she might of thought he was unconscious. She grabbed the knife she had taken from him earlier, marvelled at the balance as it lay on her palm, and then spun it lightly so she was holding the handle. In one smooth motion she gripped his hair and tugged Dean's head upright and pressed the blade against his exposed throat.

The thick gag smothered whatever sound he made, but there was no need for sound. His chest was heaving with rapid, shallow breaths and she could see the skin trembling as his heart pounded beneath it. She lost her self for a moment, staring at the hard muscles shaping his chest and stomach, marvelling at how fragile the skin covering them looked. A drop of sweat was glistening on his chest and she followed it as it slowly trickled down to his stomach.

She knew she should look away, stop getting distracted, but she couldn't stop watching. Her breath caught as the tiny drop of moisture rolled over the muscles of his stomach. She couldn't help but imagine it was her fingers sliding slowly over his body and by the time the bead of sweat had been absorbed by the waistband of his jeans, she had bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

She couldn't shake the image of her hands mimicking the trail, of the heat of Dean's body warming her hands, the scent of him staining her skin, his sweat mingling with hers and she pressed closer and closer to him. She found herself looking at his face, replacing the reality in front of her eyes with an image from earlier, mentally removing the blindfold and gag that were hiding his features from her.

She learned closer as she pictured herself kissing him and could almost feel his breath against her lips. She imagined his hands wrapping around her waist, pulling her close, his heart racing in his chest, beating so hard she could feel it against her own skin. She could see the flush on his face as lust darkened his eyes, his head thrown back as she kissed his neck, teeth marking the pale skin, claiming him as her own.

Her eyes had slowly drifted closed and the darkness eventually pulled her out of her fantasy. She realised she was still standing in front of him, leaning so close that he knew she was there, was straining against the ropes to find her. Her own head was thrown back, her breath faster than normal, her heart racing from the force of her daydream.

She pulled back slowly, straightening her back as a blush stained her face. There was no one to have witnessed her disgrace, her total loss of control, and yet she felt humiliated. She fixed her eyes on Dean, anger beginning to boil again. She could hear her daddy's voice, warning about the Winchester boy, telling her that she could never be too careful, never be sure what tricks he would try to play.

And suddenly, just like that, it all made sense. She wasn't feeling love, or even lust, she was under a spell he had somehow cast. He had used magic to try to keep her distracted to give his friends time to find him, to stop her from making him pay for what he had done to her daddy.

Her eyes narrowed as he looked at him. His breathing had slowed, he had stopped pulling against the ropes. Either had thought she had left or he thought she was finished with him.

'He's not scared anymore.' And she snapped. He should be scared. He should be trying to cower away from her, beg her to stop, to let him die. He should be wishing for death to end his pain, and instead he was sitting there, calmly, looking almost at ease.

She spun round, grabbed the cattle prod that she had earlier told herself was overkill, and flicked the power on. The whine as the charge built sent a thrill though her and she almost removed the earplugs so Dean could hear it too, but at the last moment, as her fingers were touching the first plug, she decided the sensory deprivation would do more than a sound he probably wouldn't be able to identify.

She held the cattle prod close to his skin, but not close enough for the electricity to reach him, moving it slowly, tracing the outlines of his muscles and scars. He seemed to know something was happening, his head kept moving from side to side as if he were trying to catch a glimpse or a whisper of something. She marvelled at how acute his senses were and wondered briefly if they made him more sensitive to pain, or if his training and experiences had taught him to treat it as little more than a minor annoyance.

Curiosity fully aroused, she moved the cattle prod closer to his left shoulder, drawn by a nasty looking scar that looked almost like a burn. His whole body tensed as the current raced through him and a brief cry sounded against the gag. She moved the prod away quickly and Dean's body slumped slightly before he straightened his back again. It could have been a way of trying to get comfortable, but she chose to see it as an act of defiance and pressed the cattle prod against him again.

Again she was treated to the sight of every visible muscle tensing and straining. Again he slumped as she pulled the prod away only to straighten his back and raise his head. It annoyed her, and she pushed the prod against him again, pulled it back, and immediately pressed it against him again, not giving him time to recover himself. Ten times in as many seconds she send electricity coursing though him, his body jerking and shaking each time.

Small red dots, about half the size of a dime marked each place the cattle prod had touched him, and she grinned as a thought popped in to her head. She moved the prod away, watching as Dean fought to control his breathing, his body shaking. As soon as he seemed to be recovering, she pushed the prod up against the first red mark, and dragged it from one to the other, like a child's join the dot picture, with Dean jerking violently as she did.

The second she moved the prod away he slumped as far as the ropes would allow, and this time he didn't straighten up again. She stood waiting for a moment or two before realising that he had blacked out and she quickly removed the gag, not wanting him to choke on his own drool before he woke up. After a moments consideration she pulled off the blindfold and removed the earplugs too. It might be more interesting if he could see exactly what was in store for him next.

She wanted to wake him up, worried that his friends might be closing in, but she decided she really didn't care. She could be patient, and if it meant she got the opportunity to make Dean watch while she killed his little brother then it would make her life worthwhile.

***

Dean woke slowly, feeling pain but not quite remembering why. A picture flashed in to his head of Sam lying on the floor, blood on his face.

"You shot him," a voice whispered. "He begged you not to, and you ignored him." He didn't even realise he had made a sound until someone answered him.

"You're not keeping up at all, Dean. The drug I gave you to make you believe that you had killed your precious brother left your system a while ago. It the electricity you just experienced."

He shuddered as the memory came back. He hadn't been able to see or hear anything, couldn't make a sound past the gag. He remembered what he thought was his shirt being cut open, and sure enough as he tried to flex his arms, he felt cool air against his chest for a brief second before the dull pain erupted full force. Every breath was struggle that ended in a cry of pain as he struggled to force his chest to move. His every muscle was tense against the waves of agony that were crashing down over him. His previous encounter with electricity hadn't been anywhere near this painful, and just as he was thinking that there had to be something else wrong, something cracked behind him.

"I go bored waiting for you to wake up so I started without you. I do hope you don't mind." Footsteps told him his tormentor was walking round the chair and another crack made him flinch before he even saw what had made the sound. Then she was standing in front of him, a long whip in her hand. A quick flick of her wrist made the whip crack again, the tip just a few inches away from his face. He cringed and strained his neck, trying to move away. But the damned ropes were still holding fast and all could do was sit there and wait.

As she walked behind him again Dean let his eyes close; there was no one to keep up a brave face for. He was beyond scared and there was no point trying to hide it. He had no idea where he was, who he was with, why she was torturing him or how anyone would be able to find him.

He just had enough time to hope that Sam had realised he had gone missing and was looking for him, then the whip curled round his stomach making him gasp and jerk. It felt like a circle of angry hornets stinging him over and over. Another crack, and he jumped again. His breathing sped up slightly as he tried to prepare himself for the pain, but the whip licked his exposed skin before he could.

He managed to catch his whimper behind gritted teeth, but the next few strokes fell too quickly. He couldn't catch his breath as the leather flickered over his back and shoulders making him jerk and strain against the ropes.

The pain was growing now, swelling with each stroke, making his nerves flare and his muscles scream. He tried to focus on breathing, grateful that he could at least do that. There was a brief pause, his body shaking in anticipation of the next stroke. Then he stopped breathing as the whip lashed out and wrapped itself around his neck. He tried to open his mouth around the gag as the leather pressure around his neck grew greater, trying to draw in a breath somehow. But his chest was convulsing with each frantic attempt to inhale and he could feel himself starting to black out.

He tried to struggle as something was draped over his face, but the pressure eased on his throat and breathing was much more important. Fingers tickled the back of his head and then the gag was dragged away. He opened his mouth wide, trying to fight the urge to cough so he could take in deeper breaths. The chill didn't register at first; he was too busy desperately trying to stop the ache in his lungs. But then whatever was covering his face began pressing down, the weight increasing. He started gasping again as the weight began to be too heavy for him to breath through.

Something rolled down his cheek and he screamed when he realised it was water.

'She's gonna drown me! Oh god oh god!' his panicked mind babbled as his body began to jerk without him even realising it. Water dripped into his mouth and his pressed his lips together in a bid to save himself. But the second he tried to breathe through his nose water filled it, dribbling to the back of his throat and making him choke and gag. Every time his pleading lungs tried to draw in more air they just pulled in more water instead.

There was a strange burning sensation in his chest, half from lack of air and half from the chill of the water that was slowly filling his lungs. He tried to beg her to stop, tried to plead with her, but there was too much water in his throat and his voice wouldn't work. All he could think of was how much it was going to hurt Sam if he died again. He focused on his little brother to try to push away the panic and the pain. But he couldn't ignore the weight in his chest, and he couldn't fight off unconsciousness any longer. His body went on to autopilot; air is needed and nose is blocked so mouth must be opened. And he opened his mouth, and the water that had been trickling down his cheeks and dripping to the floor flooded in, and his lungs expanded, and he felt his throat close.

'I'm so sorry, Sammy,' was the last thing that went through his head. Then his mind followed his consciousness in to the downward spiral that was so familiar, so sickeningly familiar, that a wave of hazy memories crashed over him and he almost thought he could hear Hell Hounds barking in the distance.

She stood over him, debating with herself. She had wanted to kill him. She had taken the cloth off his face to check as soon as he had stopped struggling, and he had stopped breathing. It was job done. But she wanted to see him die. She wanted to watch as the light faded in his eyes the way it had dimmed in her daddy's eyes. If she just left him as he was now, he would soon go. The pulse she could see flickering in his throat would shudder and stop, and her work would be over. But if she brought him back, she would have the pleasure of finishing him off with her own two hands.

She had forgotten that Dean's family and friends would be looking for him. She didn't remember her earlier decision to hurt him then kill him as quickly a possible. She wanted to watch as his grip on life grew weaker and weaker. She wanted to feel his last breath on her cheek, to watch as his chest heaved then stilled, to see the brief flash of fear creep in to his eyes before death stole in and robbed them of all emotion.

She made her decision, balled up her fist, and drove in hard in to his stomach. No reaction, not even an unconscious wince. She frowned, balled up her fist again, and threw all her weight behind the blow. This time he coughed slightly then gagged, water and bile spilling down his chin and his body suddenly realised it could breathe again. She stood patiently until the heaving and retching had stopped and his breathing had evened out a little.

"Look at me, Dean," she ordered, her voice calm and even. His head shook slightly, but his eyes lifted until they were locked on her face. Then they shifted down, and she knew he was looking at the knife she was holding. The knife his father had given to him.

"I had so many plans," she said quietly, making note of the way his head craned towards the sound of her voice even as his eyes remained fixed on the blade glinting in her hand. "But it's time to end this now."

She raised the knife above her head, sorry that it had to end so soon, but determined to get revenge for her daddy.

"You're the reason my daddy killed himself," she said, watching as his eyes widened at her words. "He left me alone with nothing but the thought of making you suffer to ease my pain." She drew her arm back, ready to plunge the blade into him, already imaging the way the handle would quiver in her hand as his heart beat frantically against the razor sharp metal. Just one more thing to do, one more think to say, and then it would be perfect.

"My daddy's name was…" All the air was forced out of her lungs as the bullet tore through her, shredding tissue and muscle as it did. The knife dropped to the floor as her body slumped forwards and fell to the land face down in the pool of Dean's blood. His eyes were still fixed on her as Sam ran over to him, stuffing the gun back in to his waistband and pulling out a knife. He started slicing through the ropes, but Dean didn't look at him until Sam called his name.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Dean?"

Slowly Dean turned his head until he was eye to eye to Sam, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Sammy?" Sam watched in horror as his big brother suddenly began to sob, choking on the air he was gulping in. The second his hands were free Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and pulled him close, not even noticing the nearly excruciating pain the movement caused. For his part, Sam stayed still, his relief at finding his brother alive tempered by the fear that was coursing him through him at Dean's actions.

When Dean had gone missing Sam had torn the small town apart trying to find him, and had come across the remains of what looked like a spell bag. When he'd told Bobby what he had found, the older man had cursed like a sailor. It hadn't taken long for him to explain the purpose of the ingredients Sam had found, and the youngest Winchester had spent the last few hours trying to fight down the growing panic he was feeling.

Dean would believe anything he was told. Whoever had him could tell him he was still in hell, and his mind would accept it as fact. Sam was pretty sure Dean wouldn't be able to stand something like that for too long. Now he had found his brother, and it looked as though this bitch had done a good job of trying to recreate hell. Dean's face was bruised, his lips had a bluish tint to them, his hands were a bloody mess, his back and chest were a mass of raised welts and broken skin, and the bruising on his throat had made Sam choke slightly in sympathy.

The one thing Sam couldn't figure out was why Dean was wet. He hugged Dean as tightly as he dared without knowing the exact damage done and his eyes landed on a soaked cloth lying on the floor. His mind flashed back to something their dad had told them once, something about interrogation techniques and simulated drowning, and his mind shuddered away from the fear Dean must of felt.

Dean was mumbling something, his voice muffled by Sam's chest. Sam pulled back slowly, as worried about scaring Dean as he was about hurting him. He kept one hand on Dean's back and gently cupped his brother's chin with the other. He waited until the familiar green eyes were looking at him before speaking.

"I missed that," he said softly. "Say it again?" And he put on a faint impression of his puppy dog eyes, trusting that Dean wouldn't try to resist it in his current state.

"I shot you dead." Dean's voice was hoarse and just barely above a whisper, but Sam heard the four words, and felt his heart freeze. He cursed the woman he had just killed, not even bothering to look down at her body. That was how she had started it, it must have been. Tell Dean that Sam was dead and he would start to fall apart. Tell him it was his fault and he would agree regardless of the facts. But strip him of his ability to fight the words, then tell him it was his hand that had ended Sam's life, and he would cause more pain to himself than any torture technique Sam could think of.

'Bitch bitch bitch fucking bitch!' he screamed in his mind, even as he was talking to Dean.

"I'm right here, and I'm fine. You didn't do anything. You're too good a big brother to ever hurt me." It sounded weak and pathetic to Sam, but Dean seemed to latch on to the sound of his voice, his eyes clearing slightly. One hand let go of Sam and reached up to rest on his cheek, patting it lightly once, and then falling to Dean's lap. The other joined it and Sam knelt to cut the ropes holding Dean's legs to the chair.

The instant the last thread broke Dean slumped forward and Sam had to jump back to catch him before he hit the floor. He lowered him as carefully as he could, wanting nothing more than to get him away, but needing to be sure that he would survive long enough to get to safety.

He checked Dean as quickly as he could for any life threatening injury, not finding any, but not trusting his own medical knowledge. He shook Dean's shoulder as gently as he could, the laboured breathing scaring him in to needing to hear his voice. He heaved a sigh of relief as Dean's eyes opened, choosing to ignore the dullness of the usually bright green.

"C'mon, big brother. I need you to stay with me." Sam knew he sounded scared and desperate, but he really didn't care. And it seemed to spark something in Dean. He took a deep breath, making himself cough, but tried to struggle in to an upright position. Sam moved so he was lifting him, knowing Dean well enough to know that he would kill himself before showing weakness. The stubborn look on his face reassured Sam more than any doctor could ever have done.

"Bobby's waiting for us. Can you hang on until we get there?" He was at a loss to explain the look that flittered over Dean's face at the mention of the older hunter's name and Dean was in no fit state to be explaining anything. He gave a small nod in response to Sam's question, groaned, and passed out again. Sam looked at him in despair; he'd been hoping Dean had been feeling better than he looked. Even though Sam was the taller of the two Dean was not a short man, and every inch of him was muscle. It was next hard to move an insensible Dean at the best of times, but now San had to worry about being gentle too.

He threw a glare over at the rapidly cooling body on the floor, offering up a quick prayer of thanks that it wasn't Dean's dead body lying there even as he regretted killing her so quickly. Making her suffer sounded really good to him right now.

"Ok, Dean. This is probably gonna hurt like hell. But you're unconscious, so I guess that doesn't matter." So saying, Sam lowered his brother to the floor then stood and hooked his hands under Dean's arms. It wasn't gentle in any way, and Sam muttered apologies the whole time he was dragging Dean across the floor. But, as he explained as he was pulling Dean in to the Impala's front seat, the only other way he could carry him was a fireman's lift, and that was definitely out of the question.

"It's ok, Dean. I'll get you to Bobby. Just hold on." Sam bundled his hoodie in to a ball and slipped it under his brother's head, hoping it would make him more comfortable. He made a mental note to find and thank the genius responsible for fitting bench seats in the Impala; there was no way Dean could have sat in a single seat and Sam wouldn't of been happy to dump him on his own in the back. Much better like this, his feet on the floor, his head on Sam's leg, the rest of his body staying where it landed.

Dean could take comfort from the physical comfort and Sam could keep a close eye on him. Win win situation. Now all he needed to do was keep the car running long enough to get Dean to Bobby. The banging noise Dean had mentioned the other day seemed to be getting louder, and it had found a companion in a pinging noise that had Sam questioning the safety of the car. But it was the only way he had to get Dean to Bobby, and taking care of Dean was all that mattered right now.

"C'mon, baby," he whispered, trying to emulate Dean's easy way of speaking to the car. "Don't let him down." He wasn't sure if it was a request or a prayer, but either way, he kept him foot pressed down hard on the gas. He knew it should take about an hour to get to the motel where he'd arranged to meet Bobby but he wasn't sure Dean had an hour to spare and so he drove as fast he dared, slowing only when it seemed a bump might threaten to throw Dean off the seat.

Every five miles he pressed two fingers to Dean's neck to reassure himself that Dean was just unconscious and hadn't actually died in the last few minutes. Every time he felt the weak but steady throb beneath his fingers he heaved sigh of relief before putting his hand back on the wheel.

Bobby was waiting in the doorway of the room and ran to the car, pulling the door open before Sam had even killed the engine. The two of them managed to man handle Dean on to one of the beds and then Sam was kept busy by Bobby demanding this or that item as he worked over Dean. He really wanted to just sit down and try to work out exactly what had happened, but Dean needed him. First thing was to drape a damp towel over his back to stop the blood from sticking and then prop him up with as many pillows and bundled up blankets as they could; his breathing was laboured and Bobby was worried about the implications.

Sam remembered the soaked cloth and the pool of water at the bottom of the chair and quickly shared his suspicions as they worked in tandem, Bobby cleaning and wrapping Dean's fingers and Sam cleaning the wounds on his stomach and chest. Bobby didn't react openly as Sam talked but the way his eyes narrowed told Sam the older man's temper was flaring.

It took longer to take care of the mess that was Dean's back, the simple act of cleaning off the dried blood lasting longer than Sam cared to remember. Then came cleaning the actual wounds, and finally covering the wounds, all the while desperately trying not to jostle the increasingly restless Dean. By the time they had finished Dean was nearly awake and Bobby moved away from the bed so Sam could rest Dean back against the pillows and sit on the side of the bed, the better to keep him calm as he was regaining consciousness.

Dean began moaning quietly and Sam started whispering something quietly, but before whatever he was saying could have any kind of effect Dean gave a yell so full of fear that Bobby's blood ran cold. He ran the few steps back to the side of the bed and he and Sam both tried to sooth the terrified man between them. It took more minutes than either of them wanted to count before Dean's breathing finally started to even out.

"Sammy?" His voice was so quiet and weak that it took a second or two for Sam to register Dean had spoken, but as soon as he did he answered with a rambling set of assurances that had Bobby's head spinning slightly. He was referencing events that Bobby had never heard of and as soon as he was sure Dean wasn't going to try to jump out of the bed the older man moved away again to give the brothers some privacy.

"I shot you." There it was again, and Sam frowned at the certainty in his brother's voice. "I know it wasn't real, but I could see it, hear it, even smell it. It was…"

"It was fake, Dean," Sam said firmly, knowing Dean would find a way to feel guilty if he wasn't stopped. "Don't think about it anymore." A small laugh that may or may not have been mixed with a sob was his only reply for a while. He knew from the tension he could feel radiating off Dean that there was something seriously wrong. He also knew that all he had to do was wait and the painkillers would see to it that Dean started talking sooner or later.

"I was scared." Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Dean sound so vulnerable and he unconsciously shifted closer as he carried on talking. "She was gonna kill me, and I don't even know why."

'We'll never know why,' Sam's inner voice said sadly. He was feeling pretty shaken about how easily he had shot the woman who had hurt his brother and he wanted nothing more than to tell Dean what he had done and have him make it all better, but Dean needed him now.

Bobby sat unnoticed by Dean and forgotten by Sam as the two talked in whispers that grew shorter and quieter as the minutes passed. He watched as Sam helped Dean settle back then make himself comfortable at his brother's side. He tried not to listen to what was being said, knowing that he would be told everything sooner or later. He smiled to himself at the protective look on Sam's face, the peaceful look in Dean's eyes.

Sure they were both idiots at times, but when it came to the important things like looking out for each other, he couldn't think of two people who did a better job. He shifted slightly, getting himself more comfortable, preparing to spend the night where he was. The two young men he had grown to think of as sons were both already asleep, although how they both fit on the one bed was a mystery to him. He knew that there was a lot to the story that he didn't know yet, but he also knew that as long as they had each other, his boys would be just fine. And that was what was really important.


End file.
